Bullets for a Ballot

by Nik Morton

  Angelina reined her mount around and rode back the way they'd come.

  -TEN-

  Different Kind of Lawman

  Expecting an ambush, Cash and Miles slid a foot out of their stirrups and clung to their horses' necks. Rifle fire cascaded to the gully floor, but the targets were moving too fast and were mostly hidden by their running horses.

  Reaching a cluster of boulders at the roadside, Cash dropped from his horse, hit the ground and rolled under cover.

  A few yards further up, Miles did the same. Their horses kept on running, away from the gunfire.

  Bullets whanged off the rocks.

  "Two of them!" Cash called.

  "Yep. Got one—over to my right."

  "You're welcome to him. I'll take this one."

  The ambusher above Cash fired down at the boulders, knocking chips of rock everywhere. Dust and smoke filled his nostrils. He lunged to a shaded section, behind more rocks. The ambushers probably didn't expect us to get so far through the gully, he thought.

  Cash removed his boots and gun-belt. He'd have liked to slip on his moccasins, but they were in his saddlebag. Barefoot, with lithe quick movements, he scaled the higgledy-piggledy mass of outcropping rocks. He was silent, almost like a ghost. He carried his revolver in his hand and a knife in its sheath on his belt.

  It sounded as though Miles was trading shots with the other ambusher. Maybe he was pinned down. He had to hope his friend would manage. He wasn't going to offer aid, as that would give away his position.

  It took him perhaps ten minutes to negotiate the rugged side of the gully. The shooter had been obliging, advertising his whereabouts with random if ineffectual shots.

  Now, the ambusher stopped firing, probably because Cash hadn't returned any shots for several minutes, in fact since he began his climb.

  It didn't matter. Cash spotted him—just over to his right, about two yards below. As he'd intended, Cash had circled the man and gained an advantage above him.

  He recognized the shooter. Definitely Craig Bond.

  * * *

  Miles fired and reloaded, pinning down the shooter, which was no mean achievement with only a Colt against a rifle. But Miles was a crack shot and evidently the ambusher wasn't.

  He noted that the shooting over by Cash had stopped.

  Time for a little ruse, he reckoned.

  Miles took off his hat and tentatively held it out to his left, as far as he could reach, letting its crown jut above the line of rocks.

  Bullets rained down, gouging out the rock, but missed the hat. The guy was a lousy shot. But even a badly aimed bullet could kill. Miles flicked the hat in the air, suggesting perhaps that its owner had been hit and at the same time he rolled to his right and stood, hammer cocked.

  Sheriff Hain stepped out from one side of a big boulder, his rifle raised, ready, his mouth curved in a grin.

  The grin froze as Hain noted Miles standing below to his left.

  Miles extended his arm and fired as Hain brought his rifle round.

  Hain dropped his weapon and clutched at his throat. The gargling sound he made seemed to fill the gully. The sheriff fell facedown among the scattered boulders.

  "I reckon Zeke'll be the new sheriff now," Miles said.

  * * *

  Soundlessly, Cash jumped from his vantage point, landing directly behind Craig. His bare feet thudded into Craig's back and before Craig could react, Cash slammed his gun barrel against the man's temple. Craig dropped like a felled tree.

  When Craig recovered consciousness, he found himself staked out and spread-eagled on the gully floor. His pants had been cut away and his legs and groin were bare. A pile of dried wood was clustered around his midriff and between his legs.

  Nursing her sore head, Esther watched dispassionately from horseback. The bruise on her temple showed livid purple. To one side, Miles leaned against a boulder.

  "I hope you appreciate the effort we've put into this," Cash told Craig. "Getting just the right kind of wood isn't easy in this place. It has to be tinder dry and not too big." He flicked a match, lit a cheroot.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  "I'm doing the questioning, Craig." He puffed out smoke and extinguished the match, threw it onto the kindling between Craig's legs. Craig flinched. "You do the answering. That's how it works."

  "Don't be stupid! I've got nothing to say."

  "I think you have. You can start by telling us where you put young Danny. His ma's kinda anxious to locate him." He thumbed at Esther.

  "You're a lawman," Craig said. "You aren't allowed to torture me."

  "Cash is a different kind of lawman," Miles observed, filing a nail. "And I assure you, he's quite serious."

  "Anyway," Cash said, "who said anything about torture?"

  Craig craned his neck round. "Mrs. Tray—Tolliver, you can't let him do this!"

  She closed her eyes briefly and shuddered, then opened them and looked daggers at him, but she didn't—or couldn't—speak.

  Cash said. "I'm just asking a few questions, is all." He struck another match and flung it at the wood on Craig's torso.

  Craig let out a squeal. The tinder quickly caught alight, and flames soon flickered.

  "Oops, careless of me," Cash said.

  "Put it out," Craig screamed, "quick!"

  "What?" Cash said, raising a foot above the fire and Craig's groin. "Stomp it out?"

  "Whatever, do it now!" He writhed and tugged at his tethers. "Please!"

  Cash lowered his boot on the flaming tinder and smothered it with his sole, pressing down hard with his heel digging into the man's groin.

  Craig groaned and hissed through his teeth. Sweat covered his entire face.

  "You'd better start talking," Cash advised, "else I might have another accident with my matches…"

  "Okay, okay—we took him to the Nolan's spread…"

  "We've already been there—the building site's deserted," said Miles. "Try again."

  Esther eased her mount closer, attentive. "Go on," she said coldly.

  Cash lit another match.

  "No!" Craig shrieked, "I meant the Nolans' ranch house. Where they live now. They won't move to the Sullivan place till it's finished."

  "You'd better show us," Cash said and blew out the match.

  * * *

  Craig explained that they'd been able to buy the sheriff easily enough. Hain wanted to get out, before Nolan ruined everything he'd worked for, and this payoff answered his prayers. "Of course, now he ain't praying, he's with the angels."

  "Devils, more like," said Esther.

  Craig's hands were tied behind his back and his feet were tethered to the stirrups. He sat uncomfortably, bare-assed. Esther rode alongside, Winchester in the crook of her arm, constantly watching him.

  They entered the Nolan spread and rode toward the root cellar.

  "I put him in there," Craig said.

  At that moment, the mayor strode down his porch steps, a Greener leveled threateningly. "Marshal, what are you doing on my property?" he challenged.

  Cash dismounted. "Don't threaten an officer of the law, Mayor. It might prove fatal."

  "Answer my question, damn you!" He raised the shotgun butt to his shoulder.

  Cash drew his Colt and fired, just once, his bullet slicing into the mayor's left shoulder.

  Mayor Nolan stumbled backward and dropped the weapon. He hissed between clenched teeth, a hand covering the wound.

  Esther cocked her rifle and prodded Craig in the back. "Don't think about moving," she warned between gritted teeth.

  "Keep your shirt on," Craig said, "I ain't going anywhere."

  "Maybe to Hell," she said in a harsh whisper.

  "Stay there, Mayor," Miles advised, "if you know what's good for you." He covered the mayor with his Colt.

  Trembling with shock, the mayor docilely watched.

  Cash walked up to the root cellar. He shot off the padlock and swung open the door. "Danny?" he called down into the must
y darkness.

  Then he walked inside, into the flickering dusky light.

  * * *

  A few seconds later, Cash came out and called to Miles, "Bring my bedroll." His voice sounded hollow. He stood, waiting, his eyes avoiding Esther's.

  She sat astride her horse, clearly anxious, her rifle aimed at Craig.

  Keeping an eye on the mayor, Miles walked over and handed Cash the bedroll. "Do you want me to come down with you?"

  Cash shook his head. "No. I'll be up directly." He turned and re-entered the root cellar.

  True to his word, he was back within a half-minute. In his arms he carried Danny, wrapped in the bedroll. A bare bloodstained forearm dangled loose.

  Esther groaned. "Oh, my son!" Hastily, she dismounted and, still clutching the rifle, ran over.

  "He's dead, Esther," Cash said, his voice dull. "I'm sorry, we were too late." Gently, he lowered Danny down on the warm earth under the sun's glare. He knelt beside the boy, unwilling or unable to rise.

  The boy's face was deathly pale, emphasized more by the bruises about his eyes and nose.

  Esther sank to her knees beside Cash. She put the rifle aside and lifted the blanket from her son. She let out a plaintive wail and quickly covered him.

  Cash would remember the boy's many wounds till the day he died. Scratches made by fingernails gouged over Danny's chest and groin, but it was the multiple stab wounds in his belly that took the boy's life. And on his purple lips were smudges of strawberry-colored lipstick.

  Color drained from Esther's face as she turned to Cash. "You promised neither of us would come to grief!" Tears trailed over her cheeks while her fists pounded his chest. She sobbed, her whole body shaking.

  "Danny's death has nothing to do with the election," Cash whispered. "He was killed by a crazy woman." But she didn't seem to hear him, so he let her pummel away, until finally she eased off and her fists opened like bruised flowers to rest in her lap.

  Exhausted, she nodded. "I know, I can see that…" Her voice croaking, she added, "I think you should know Dean's last private words to me…"

  "Some other time, Esther. You're hurting. Tell me—"

  "No," she whispered, persistent. "I'll tell you now. Dean said: 'I know Danny isn't my son, dearest, but I loved him as if he was ...' And he did, he did so very much." Esther lifted a hand to wipe away her tears. "Danny was your son, Cash."

  That knife twisted inside him again.

  -ELEVEN-

  Cold Heart

  It seemed as if nobody paid Craig any attention. He gentled his horse round with knee pressure and settled the animal into a canter, away from the dead boy, the wounded mayor and the damnable widow woman.

  His bare ass hurt like hell, but he didn't care. Must get away—now!

  * * *

  Out of the corner of her eye, and even through the tears, Esther detected the movement.

  Knowing that Craig had been the man who delivered Danny here, her heart hardened. She grabbed the Winchester.

  From her kneeling position, she aimed and fired. She was so numb, she didn't feel the recoil.

  She noted with grim satisfaction that a dark shape appeared at the base of Craig's skull. He slumped in the saddle and his bonds prevented him from falling. The horse continued its canter and Craig Bond's body swayed with the motion. His last ride.

  * * *

  Mayor Nolan laughed. "Good shot, Mrs. Tolliver, but I guess you still lose." He lifted a six-gun from his belt.

  But he was too slow, perhaps weakened by his wound. Miles extended his right arm and activated his spring-loaded knife. It struck the mayor's forearm and he dropped the weapon.

  Miles looked at Cash and shrugged. "My turn, I reckon. I decided not to kill him. I thought Mrs. T would appreciate a living opponent ..."

  She shook her head. "I can't go through with the election now. Not after what it has cost me."

  Cash got to his feet and helped her up. "Danny wanted you to, Esther. This is your day. Do this for him."

  She leaned in against him, silent. He was sure he felt her heart rending apart.

  Gently, he led her into the arms of Miles. "Take her back to town," he told Miles. "Help her win that damned election."

  Miles nodded.

  Her eyes searched his face, an unvoiced question.

  "This is something I have to do alone," Cash said.

  * * *

  He knew where Angelina Nolan had last been—at the entrance to the gully, before the ambush. As she hadn't come through the gully, she must have ridden back along the road. He'd start there.

  His heart was cold, his senses at a heightened state by the time he reached the gully.

  It only took a few minutes before he identified her horse tracks.

  Grimly, he followed the trail. It led toward the fork, where there was a signpost for the Jacobson ranch in one direction and Bear Pines in the other.

  Her tracks led to the Jacobson spread.

  He couldn't fathom why she'd want to go there, but geed Paint that way.

  * * *

  Lance Jacobson's face showed surprise as he saw Mrs. Nolan walking in, leading her horse, which had a limp. He stood up from his chair on the porch, a tall powerfully built man in a red-checked shirt and jeans. He waved and welcomed her. "Throw a shoe?" he added.

  She nodded and wiped dust from her face. "Yes, not long after I took the fork. I was coming to visit you and decided to carry on as I thought your place is closer than town, anyway."

  "I'll get Snark to re-shoe the horse. Come and sit a while, till it's done."

  "Thank you kindly, Lance."

  She sat on a chair next to him. On a small table by the chairs was a bottle of whiskey and several tumblers. She slid a tongue over dry lips.

  Turning in his chair, Jacobson bawled, "Prentice!"

  An elderly man rushed out. He wore an apron and black clothes. "Sir?"

  "Take Mrs. Nolan's horse over to Snark and get a new shoe put on, will you?"

  "Yes, sir, right away." Nodding fleetingly at Angelina, Prentice rushed down the steps and took the horse away.

  Jacobson poured her a drink.

  Her hand trembled slightly as she drank it in one gulp. God, she needed that! She held out the glass for another measure, her hand much steadier.

  "So what brings you here, Mrs. Nolan?" he asked, refilling her glass. "Is Brett all right?"

  "He's fine," she said, sipping her second drink. "Looking forward to the election results later today, of course."

  Jacobson screwed up his face. "Damned election. I've already been to town and voted, of course, but it rankled. The election cost me a good son!"

  A chill ran down her spine. "But Jerry's murder had nothing to do with the election."

  "Sure it did. If there was no election, that damned marshal wouldn't have been in our town!"

  She nodded. "Yes, I suppose you're right. In fact, that's what I've come to you about."

  "Oh?"

  "I fear that the marshal might have slain our good sheriff ..."

  Jacobson swore then added, "Sorry, Mrs. Nolan ..." He clenched his fists. "Hain locked up my boy and those lads, but he said it was only for a few days, till the election was over. He promised. Otherwise ..."

  "Otherwise?" she prompted, emptying her glass.

  "Otherwise, I'd have ridden into Bear Pines and sprung Matt and the others." He refilled her glass. "What happened, how'd the sheriff get killed?"

  "He had a disagreement about some point of law, as I understand it." She shrugged. "Sheriff Hain was never going to be fast enough to out-draw that marshal. He was a fool to even try." She was convinced the sheriff and Bond had failed—there'd been too much shooting.

  "Brett will sorely miss Hain's support. Today, of all days."

  "That's one vote less, certainly." She smiled at him. "So the sheriff's promise no longer holds, does it?"

  "No, I don't suppose it does."

  "What are you going to do now, Lance Jacobson?" If she could en
tice Jacobson to go up against those marshals, then everything could still work out fine.

  "I might get the boys together and ..." He paused and then stood up and peered at the ranch entrance. "What the hell ...?"

  Angelina got to her feet and followed his gaze. She felt the blood drain from her face.

  Marshal Cash Laramie sat astride his pinto, under the Jacobson shingle. As if he hadn't a care in the world, he smoked a cheroot. He seemed to be waiting.

  "What are you going to do now, Lance Jacobson?" she repeated.

  -TWELVE-

  A Strange One

  Slowly, taking a measured step, Jacobson reached up and clanged the metal triangle that hung from the veranda roof. Usually the call to lunch, it was also employed on rare occasions to raise an alarm.

  Cash Laramie didn't make a move.

  Barely a minute passed and then six ranch hands emerged from the bunkhouse and hurried over to the porch.

  "What's up, boss?" asked the oldest, a big grizzled man with a bushy brown beard and unkempt hair.

  "Seems we've got a killer marshal paying us a visit, Dutch," said Jacobson. "He killed my son Jerry and locked up my Matt and your pals."

  Dutch's face darkened and his eyes narrowed. "Maybe this particular marshal needs showing how we do justice out here."

  "They were my thoughts, exactly," Jacobson said.

  Angelina sensed the blood coursing through her veins while the warmth of the brandy spread in her gut. She felt her cheeks flush with anticipation. Maybe the marshal's death wouldn't affect the election's outcome, but it would certainly please her. She slid her tongue over her lips.

  Jacobson studied the tableau in front of him and folded his arms across his chest. "Before I set my boys on you, Marshal, do you care to tell me what you want here?"

  "Are you after killing someone else?" suggested Dutch.

  The other hands growled and mumbled.

  "I'm here to arrest Mrs. Nolan."

  Her heart skipped. She hadn't expected that. "You must be joking!" She laughed and looked at Jacobson.

  The rancher eyed her, puzzled. Without taking his eyes off her, Jacobson called, "Why? What's the charge?"